I Was A First-Class Stowaway

I Was a First-Class StowawayAt a very dry time in a very shaky writing career, I was working as a waiter at a swanky restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center, hating it thoroughly, wearing a uniform and being treated like some kind of culinary marine. I couldn't stand the fact that I wasn't sitting there dining with an adoring woman (give her long blonde hair for the hell of it and wide, alarmingly trusting green eyes), instead of worrying about whether or not some furious dentist were go...